


The Space Dust Gets In the Way

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, One Shot, SUPER canon divergent, fuzzy details of how sith stuff happens, major character death is poetic not detailed, removed age gap between Cassian and Leia, what if anakin didn't fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Anakin doesn't fall.The universe holds its breath.Leia becomes a warrior, Luke, a senator.And the universe thinks, just maybe, that it might have gotten things right this time.But even the universe can be wrong, sometimes.





	The Space Dust Gets In the Way

**Author's Note:**

> A wise friend once told me to try to write a complex, long story in a collection of shorter scenes.  
This is my first attempt at doing so.  
Enjoy!

Anakin doesn’t fall.

The universe breathes a sigh of relief.

The universe, however, fails to note that it was not the Jedi council, who allowed the marriage, nor the brave Jedi Knight who counseled his former padawan so wisely, that saved the young man.

It was, as it often is, the voice of someone easily forgotten by the universe. Sometimes, that voice comes from a child or a refugee or a droid. Those which, to the universe, seem no more meaningful than a mote of space-dust.

But the stars know otherwise. They know that what seems like dust may be the brightest star yet. The stars have seen a great deal of things, after all, and know much more than they let on.

This time, that dust, that star, was a woman, who stopped the man she loved from becoming a monster. Not with force, no, but with calm reason and clear mind and gentle heart. Those three things, those may be more powerful than any other force wielded in the galaxy.

Anakin did not fall, but he was saved from falling long before he was ever married. He does not fall because the woman who loved him beyond all reason talked to him until he returned to his own senses and forswore his vengeance. After all, his love had told him, vengeance will never bring about peace, nor life, nor hope. It would only destroy.

And this time, because the stars shone differently that night, because the light was filtered through a different window, this time, Anakin listened. He abandoned his darker thoughts, and chose, for the first time, in such a long time, to hold not hate, but hope, within his heart.

The twin stars, watching from far above Tatooine, saw this, knew this, and were glad. The twin stars, who had watched over this child, this starlight which had grown into a young man, for his whole life, only now could shine without concern, giving him a new path forward, toward the light and away from the darkness.

Anakin does not fall, and so, he is there at the birth of his own twins, delivered on his own home planet, under the light of those same twin stars. Each star chooses a twin they like best, of course, though stars are not supposed to have favorites. They simply make the paths, and it is up to the person to choose to follow them.

A star cannot change a person’s choice, even if it wanted to. And stars such as those that burned high above the Skywalker home that day, deeply wished they could change much about the paths that lay ahead of their favorite twins.

Because Anakin did not fall, but that did not mean his children would not be tempted by the same siren call of power. The stars could not prevent that, any more than they could prevent their own slow demise from the very core that made them shine. The same things that made them would destroy them. They could only hope for better for those they loved.

* * *

Shmi lives.

If the universe classifies certain people as dust motes, she would be one. But to the former Jedi and former queen of Naboo, she is their absolute joy (in addition to being their best babysitter for their rambunctious twins)

But Shmi is more than a mother and more than a babysitter. Even if, she thinks, ruefully, that is all the universe would see her as. She's used to being forgotten, by others, even the man she had married, who left her before the twins reached one. He was the sort of man happy to wed a former slave but not one comfortable to be married to a woman growing in knowledge and self-confidence each time she returned from Naboo. Shmi didn't mind. They had a good life together, while it had lasted, and now, she was freer than she ever had been. Free to travel the galaxy, accompanied by that silly droid her son had made her once, and free to follow the light of the stars. She is content, she thinks, being alone.

Yet, the stars know, and the stars, this time, are not wrong. Shmi, they know, shines as bright as they do, a sun with the perfect amount of heat for life to blossom around her.

More than just life blossoms, though, when Shmi smiles at the kindly man who is, for this moment, happy to be known as the _second-best_ babysitter for the twins.

Love blossoms between the mother of the Jedi-who-did-not-fall and the teacher of the Jedi-who-was.

Soon, there is another wedding for the council to approve.

Yoda grumbles. Windu chuckles and cashes in on the bet he made with Yaddle. Kenobi hangs up his robe and moves to Tatooine, despite his better judgement.

Because affairs of the heart, like the light of the stars, are oftentimes more powerful than one mind may judge.

* * *

One Jedi does not fall. But the pieces that had been in place, to push him to that edge, those are still in play.

The stars look on as the war rages across the universe.

_What now,_ they wonder. _How much longer do we watch them burn, as we shine on, and on, and their light dims._

Fest falls.

It burns for six full months, a combination of toxic chemicals and toxic choices.

It burns with sickly green light, a mockery of sunshine and candlelight, a fire that only destroys all it touches.

It was never meant to burn. But it does, and so, its permafrost melts first, then its ice plains and frozen seas, and finally, its ice caps.

By the time Fest floods, it is devoid of life.

If a star could weep, the one that watches over that doomed planet would. But it cannot, and so, it offers the only comfort it can; its light, as seen in those last moments before the last refugee ship, makes the jump to hyperspace. 

Once small boy, watching from the window, vows to never forget the way that star, _his star, _looked, no matter where his path might take him.

* * *

Anakin does not fall and so, another star is saved from watching its favorite planet (although it perhaps should not have favorites, being an impartial celestial being and all) burn in an instant.

Instead, Alderaan’s star is allowed to enjoy many more rotations of its rather-preferred planet. Alderaan remains as bright as ever, a gem among them all.

And those who live upon it know nothing of how close they came to destruction. Instead, they know that their queen, (_who always wanted a girl)_ now has three, recently adopted, daughters. Three perfect princesses, rescued from a world on the brink of destruction. The Festian orphans find a new home and a new family in the royal palace.

Those that live on Alderaan know that this is wonderful news, that the girls are the brightest stars in the court, the gems in the crown, which shine all the more brightly for their being so long-awaited.

They don’t know the three girls were accompanied by a surly younger brother, but that is perhaps for the best. Cassian causes enough havoc from the shadows, in those first years, that if the young boy had been allowed at matters of state, it might have been the Queen herself that exploded, instead of the planet.

But really, the sun, who of course, cannot have favorites, does shine a little brighter when the boy’s antics appear in the sight of its rays. Because just perhaps that stuffy lady-in-waiting did deserve to have a Tuli-rat dropped down her back for the things she said about the farmers waiting for an audience for the queen.

That is all conjecture, of course. A sun cannot have favorites, any more than a boy can return to a destroyed home, no matter how much he clings to a name that no longer belongs to him.

* * *

Anakin does not fall.

The universe, which at first was so relieved, now wonders if perhaps, this was not the choice that should have been made. Perhaps those cursed stars, that darker path, was correct? Because the war drags on and on, each year bringing new destruction to planets and silence to stars.

The war grows, until every corner of the universe knows of it, even if none of them will ever know why it began.

The war burns, brighter with each year, as orphans on each side take up arms to seek vengeance on those who took the stars out of the sky for them. The twins have their parents, which was what the universe thought it wanted, but now, so many more do not have theirs.

The war does not cease, and the universe reflects, that perhaps, just perhaps, the war was not the fault, nor the result of any one being, dust-sized or star-sized.

The war is so much larger than that, and yet, so much smaller. It is jealousy and rage and oppression. It is murder and torture and destruction. It seems ceaseless in its will to consume all else.

Eventually, its hungry gaze turns to Coruscant.

The Jedi council does fall.

This time, the younglings, the innocents, and the just; they survive because they seek a treaty with the force they have fought against for so long it has stopped being anything more than a specter of the past.

But the Jedi who secretly enjoyed the battles, who lived for the glory of war, though they would never admit it, they fall.

And the order spreads itself out, across the galaxy, much like it had once been. Rules are fragmented, teachings fractured into a thousand new branches, and lessons are re-learned by those who had forgotten them. It is that style of teaching which reaches even Anakin, who allows his children to learn from a teacher who has abandoned much of the cold dogma, in favor of the joy and hope offered by the light side.

All around them, on many planets, similar teachings begin, spread among all people and not only for select children.

The order spreads itself out, much like space dust. No longer do Jedi burn as supernovas, but as simpler lights; healers and soothsayers and mediators.

This, the universe thinks, might be the first dawn of peace.

* * *

The stars shine with relief as the war begins to subside. Figures, burning brightly, the type that history and the universe will remember forever, emerge. Both of the twins are those sorts of figures.

Leia, for her prowess in battle. Her blue lightsaber burns like the fires of justice, guiding those under her command to victory time and again.

Luke, for his compassion in the courts and meetings that occupy a senator’s time. His blue eyes are so sincere whenever he delivers a speech that he easily sways the most stalwart opposition to his side.

The Force is strong with both of them, as it always has been, in every path the stars have ever seen.

Together, the two who are younger than the war they fight, though they are adults in their own right, begin to forge a way toward peace.

Luke’s council gathers dignitaries from both sides, all of them seeking peace. He draws up accords, makes treaties and fair judgements, shining as bright as any sun on Tattooie ever would. His father had hoped to make a pilot of him, but it was the soaring possibilities of politics that won his heart.

_I’ll fly after there is peace in every sky, on every planet, father._ He’d said. He had meant it, deeply and truly, with that youthful conviction that he did everything. _To fly is to be free, and how can I fly when so many are in chains?_

Luke could never understand why those words had made his father cry.

But he did understand that peace would be won here, in this council room, with both sides presenting their grievances and their hopes, and not on the battlefield.

The Accords were drafted. They only needed to be signed. The stars above, dimmed out by Coruscant's artificial lights, wait, full of hope.

That is, after all, what a star is made of, in some ways. So many wishes, made on so many stars, over so many centuries, have made them all into little beacons of hope for anyone who turns their face toward the heavens and hopes.

* * *

Another figure does not come toward the light, though he dreams of it. His dreams are of peace and hope and trust, all the things the council speaks of. He wishes he could believe their words. He wishes his dreams were of things that could be true.

But Cassian has lived all of his nightmares a thousand times since his fifth birthday, and it is twenty years since then. The war is older than him, he thinks, but he’s not sure. After all, time on Fest was only measured by the light of their star on the snow, and not by the whims of the Core World’s clocks.

He thinks too, that although he is the same age as the golden-haired young man who speaks so earnestly, he is light years older in his heart. He has seen too much, done too much, in the name of peace, to hear the word spoken so lightly, as if it is a confection made from spun sugar.

Because Cassian’s stars have always led him toward the shadows, toward the darker things done in the name of the light. He never claimed the princely title offered him by his adopted parents, nor ever called Alderaan his home. He could not. Not when Fest still shone, in both his dreams and nightmares, waiting for him.

He is neither dust nor star but the silence of the space between the stars. He doesn’t shine, not to the universe, not even to his adopted parents, who have long given up on guiding him on their preferred path. Instead, Cassian is an eclipse, shrouding those whose light would make them a target.

Like his sisters, who each sparkle, three perfect stars in a radiant sky, as they step forward to sign the accord.

But they sign the name of Alderaan and not the ruined planet they once called home.

That is Cassian’s last thought, before he moves into action. Because there, among the lights gathered in the name of peace, was one hidden, who was full of darkness.

In one small second, the fate of the universe shifted once again.

* * *

Anakin did not fall, but the Sith found another target, another dust-mote of a person, so insignificant that he would never be noticed again, as they so reminded him, in those long cold days in the Jedi prison, while he waited for a justice that never came.

_You aren’t even a person, _the darkness whispered to the boy, another orphan, like so many others in the universe. _You’re just a clone._

The boy wanted to argue. He tried to. But his voice faded over time, as no one came for him, and the Jedi did not return to free him.

The boy, who had been called Boba, by the only person who had ever loved him, fell.

And now, more than a decade later, that boy is a man, brimming with the power of the Dark Side in his every action and the training of a Mandalorian in his precision.

He raises his pistol (he cares not for lightsabers, much to the distress of the Dark Side) and fires.

The bolt is bright and sickly green, just like the fires on Fest.

It is the only bolt he manages to fire, before Cassian, with his eyes as cold as the ice had been once on Fest, stops him. The bolt was targeted for his sister, after all. He acted without thought, without reason, with only his heart.

But in that council room, someone else also acted in the same way.

The bolt was taken, not by a princess of Alderaan, but by the young representative from Naboo.

Blood blooms on his white tunic, the same shade of red as the lightsaber his father could have wielded, if the universe would have chosen another path.

Blood blooms, and Luke knows that his path has come to an end. There is one tiny moment, one second where the darkness calls his name, promises that he could live, yet, if only he agreed to take the offer the darkness presented.

One tiny moment, where the universe held its breath and the stars waited.

* * *

But Luke does not fall. He stays true until the very end. His last word is one of forgiveness, his last breath an inhale of hope.

The stars cry out, because they have lost him. And although stars cannot have favorites, this one, they know, this one is their favorite. How could he not be? He was perfect. He was destined. He was the light that would walk among them.

But, the universe gives and the universe takes, and this time, instead of taking one who could smolder so darkly, it took the one who burned the brightest.

* * *

Anakin does not fall, not even in those dark days after losing his son.

But his daughter?

She may yet fall. She is tempted, now, more than ever. It has whispered to her for a long time, longer than she would ever admit. It promises power, peace, immortal life for those she loves, all of the things she strives for and feels she will never reach.

And when the universe grows colder and darker without her brother, the voice of the darkness becomes ever so much clearer.

She follows it, past reason, past the known paths of the stars, into the darkness of space, the silence of a planet not destroyed, but abandoned, for the shadowy center of it which poisoned all who stayed.

She follows it to a temple, to an abandoned altar, to a tall pedestal, to a glowing red rock, which she knows, knows truly, (but only true in that way that rage is true, in the way that the hottest fire burns brightest before it consumes all that is good in the world) will help her fix this broken universe, if only she grasps it.

One step closer, Leia thinks. One more, and then, the universe will be hers.

She will fall and in falling, she will save all that she loves.

One step, one vow, and she will become the most powerful Sith the universe has ever known.

But the stars know otherwise.

* * *

The stars, which had led one young man, to that same cold dark planet, only steps behind her. Because though he is less than a speck of space-dust, in his own eyes, he is someone great in the eyes of his parents, both those alive and those who watch over him from the beyond of the Universe. The Organas and the Andors both cherish him, more than he may ever know.

He is someone the stars shine brightly upon, even in his darkest moments.

He is someone who made the shadows his home, only because he wished for everyone, not just himself, to live in the light.

And it is that trait of his that Bail Organa knows, and believes in. That trait (along with his incredible ability to track those who do not wish to be found) that was recommended-no-_promised _to Anakin, when the former Jedi’s own search proved futile.

_There is no one Cassian cannot find, my friend._ Bail had said, a comforting hand on the shaking shoulder of the once great Jedi. _Trust me that my son will bring your daughter back to you._

The universe had found this fair, as once, on another path, Anakin’s son had rescued Bail’s daughter, in quite different circumstances. The universe does have a sense of humor, after all, however strange it may be to all those who are not its stars.

* * *

_But,_ Padmé had wondered, later that night, as she gazed at the stars above, _who will my daughter be when she is brought back to us?_

Could a spy who refused to be a prince save a Jedi from the allure of the Dark Side? Shouldn’t they have sent someone grander, someone who the universe would remember? Was there still time to reach out to Ben (as he went by, these days), and ask him?

_Ah, my love,_ Anakin replied, coming to stand at her side, taking her hand in both of his. (Sometimes, she felt a chill, as if one of his hands was made of metal, which would leave her cold and afraid for a long moment, before the sensation passed) _It was your voice, not Kenobi’s, that saved me._

_But I knew you._

_And so does he. Or did you forget that boy who watched from the shadows as our twins taught the three princesses of Alderaan how to pick Millaflowers when they came to visit?_

She smiles, then, for a moment, the sort of smile that Anakin thinks could teach the stars a thing or two about shining (to steal from a poet he never liked, anyway) and nods._ May it be so._

Because as much as she has hope, it does not escape her mind that Millaflowers can offer peace in small doses, but in large amounts, they can kill.

And her daughter, she knows, would be capable of the same thing.

_Would Leia fall?_

* * *

Leia’s hand hovers over the glowing stone. The power is so close that it sings to her, a song of wretched delights and crushing joys. It whispers impossible things to her, promises to return her brother, to rebuild words, to re-ignite the stars.

She listens, and she starts to believe.

Then, as is often the case, it is one word, one voice, from someone quite unexpected that stops her.

“Don’t.”

She freezes.

Cassian says it once more. “Don’t.”

His voice carries across the empty temple, reaching her far before he can. In following her, he has been gravely wounded. Broken ribs, an injury to the leg, pain like nothing he’s experienced before.

And yet, the wounds feel… familiar.

He tries not to think of that.

He also tries not to think of how unstable this planet’s core is, how any moment could be its last. It is hard for him not to dwell on that, when his nightmares are full of one singular moment, of one burst of bright light before utter destruction.

So, he does what he can to prevent that future. “Don’t take that stone,” he tells her. “It lies.”

“How do you know?” she retorts. She too is injured, though her wounds are all the sorts one cannot see.

“Because it is the voice of a liar. Any voice that promises peace bought by power is a liar.”

“Oh? And what do you know of peace, you…scoundrel?”

It’s a word he’s never been called before and Cassian can’t help but feel it’s more suited to someone else. “I know more of peace than you. I know of it the way a starving man knows food, or a drowning one knows dry land. It is all I ache for and all I have never had.”

There is a fire in his words not unlike the light of a sun. It is enough for Leia to turn and face him. “So if you dream of peace, what are you doing to achieve it?”

“Anything it asks of me,” he replies, wearily. Moments like blaster bolts flash in his mind, of every life he has taken in the name of mercy and every dark deed he has done for the good of the light.

“Including following me here?”

“Yes.”

“My brother is dead.” Leia says it flatly. Cassian doesn’t know that it is the first time she has said that truth out loud. “What peace can there be without him?”

“My brother is dead, too.” He rubs his eyes, willing his aching body to take one more step forward. She is nearly close enough to touch, though she burns with an intensity that makes him shy away from looking too closely at her. “As are my parents, my family, village, planet. How many names should I list off for you?”

Leia says nothing, her lips set in a harsh line.

“What does it promise you, beside peace?”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it? I’ve noticed you haven’t stepped away.”

“It promises…” her voice catches, before she can say the word. That one word, that one thing she had lost the day she had lost Luke.

That reality she had fought against now crashes into her once more. Luke is gone. She is alone. She falls from the temple’s altar, falls not into darkness, but into grief.

She falls, because he was right. The stone cannot promise the one thing she is in search of, has looked for ever since she lost Luke.

“No, it doesn’t.” Cassian whispers. He’d stepped forward, just in time, and caught her in his arms.

* * *

_Just like in the holobooks, one might think. But one might also be wrong, as usually princes aren’t saving fierce warriors from the temptation of all-consuming powers in the holobooks._

_Quite often, they’re merely rescuing them from Krayt Dragons._

* * *

And, Cassian does think, wearily, as he steadies her against his better, slightly less injured side, that he would much rather be facing down a Krayt Dragon than this woman, who seemed the type who’d easily handle about fifty of the massive reptiles without backing down.

“I wanted it to promise me that,” Leia whispers. “How… how did you know?”

“Because it’s the same thing I always wished for those dark voices to offer me. It was what I wanted more than rage, more than vengeance. And the one thing it never could.”

“Why?” she asks, through cracked lips. She is still beautiful to him in that moment, but it is the beauty of a collapsing star, radiant and unstable.

“It doesn’t promise you hope,” he says, “because hope cannot come from darkness. It can only come from the light.”

Leia stares at him. She moves, slowly, not toward the crystal, but to stand on her own feet. The whole time, her gaze never leaves his. “Aren’t you that spy who works for Alderaan? Shouldn’t you be somewhere more important than this?”

He scoffs, “aren’t you that Jedi warrior-woman? Shouldn’t you be somewhere more noble than this?”

Leia’s glance flickers up to the stone once more. He was right. It doesn’t offer hope. It never will. Now, free of its song, she can think clearly once more, and steps back onto her own, starlit path. “Maybe I needed a change of scenery.”

While she talks, she slings his arm over her shoulder, supporting him silently as they start to walk away from the stone’s glow, leaving it alone with all its empty promises.

“Most people choose a nice planet like Damaar for that.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” Leia retorts, “and I’m certainly not nice.”

“Yes, I have heard as much. I seem to recall you pushing my eldest sister into a lake.”

“She told me my hair looked like an Ewok’s bed!”

“Could have been a compliment?”

Leia laughs, then, suddenly. Cassian freezes. Once more, he sees her like the light of a star, only now, it is one that is bright and stable and true. One that feels… familiar, like Aldreaan’s own light.

_Maybe, _he thinks, and just as Leia, for the first time, admitted her brother was gone, Cassian admitted he had a new home, _it might be time to stop home again. For a change of scenery._

* * *

Leia does not fall.

The stars glow all the brighter for that, and no star more proudly than that of Alderaan’s, which certainly would never have a favorite, but does ensure that the wedding of a certain prince of Alderaan has the most perfect weather to have ever blessed a nuptial day.

It is the same day, as luck (or perhaps destiny) would have it that the accords are signed and peace becomes the light that guides each planet once more.

The universe breathes a sigh of relief. The stars once more resume their courses, the new destinies they have spun since Anakin did not fall all played out.

Their dance, for now, returns to a calmer, simpler pace, as peace once more blankets the universe. All is as it should be, at least, as much as it can be, given the way the space dust seemed to get in the way of the path of so many celestial bodies and destinies.

_After all, _the star thinks, _Leia, Princess of Alderaan, does have a rather nice ring to it._


End file.
